


Toothsome

by fraulein_squid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Other, Secret Desires, Undercover, disguises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraulein_squid/pseuds/fraulein_squid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft indulges an illicit desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toothsome

That morning, it seemed all of London had paid attention to the weather report. The block was almost empty, its swarm of cubicle drones finally off to their blinking in-trays and no one yet slinking back out for morning tea. Here and there a couple of ample men in thin coats, swinging black and blue umbrellas like batons; a sweat-slicked jogger slowed for a block of panting. Two women pushed pillowy, fat-wheeled prams that could fit three toddlers ashoulder. But mostly, it was quiet. 

The perfect hour. If he was going to do the thing himself, at any rate. 

Normally there would be more people about, even at quarter past ten. Part of that was the roadblocks. Part of it was surely thanks to the weather. The sky had gone from a benign enough dawn to a cold iron, promisingly ominous and roiling with great anvil clouds. Severe storms hovered in the forecast; the weathermen suggested excitedly that a tornado might form to the south. Even Mycroft couldn’t take credit for that, but he was pleased to hear it. 

The yoke of strollers and their pushers went straight past him, unseeing, the women trading nasal complaints about something to do with the immigration process. Americans. Used to tornadoes, no doubt. He felt his spine tense sharply as it looked like they were going to turn into the wrong door, but at the last instant they swerved into the bookshop just before it. 

Pull yourself together, you ridiculous creature, he said out loud. This isn’t your first.  
Yes, but it got harder every time, didn’t it. He felt like the whole city was watching him. 

Frowning, he forced himself to relax, nerve by defiant nerve. A bystander or two was probably inevitable. And - the comforting mantra - they won’t know what they’re watching. It was important, for reasons his conscious mind demurred from investigating too closely, that he procure these lovelies himself. He could always have summoned a lackey, someone discreet and impersonal, someone he’d never seen before and never would again. But chose not to. He had even dismissed Anthea for the morning. For all she and the rest of them knew, he was sleeping off a flu, swaddled in blankets and dreaming of ungulates.

Mycroft reflexively glanced down at the card he held: a list of preposterous names, sans serif on heavy ivory stock. He had had them memorized for weeks. After as long a deliberation, he had narrowed his preferences down to two. One was darkly complex, even baroquely so, heavily accessorized to appeal to the casual browser. Something a much younger man might choose. He had been assured, though, that the execution here would be flawless, the experience transcendent. The other choice was apparently simpler, even plain, but with an understated unctuousness that appealed to a lusher, more experienced set of tastes. As his own. 

His thoughts escaped him for a moment and floated, dreamily, down the street. He would have them all to himself. And no one would know.....no one who mattered would ever know. 

The door he stood behind was smoked glass, impenetrable from the outside, a featureless rectangle. Passersby slid their eyes over and past it without pausing. He waited in a crow’s nest, a lookout, a lair. The apartment itself was vacant now, reserved for the next misbehaving dignitary or naughty religious figure he would need to keep intact, or alive. The top floor also had a perfect view into a rather important, and energetic, MP’s bedroom. Two for one, in case they ever needed the insurance. There were several of these hidey-holes scattered across the city alone. Few people knew all their locations; fewer still had the keys to them all. Ironically, perhaps, he hadn’t selected the location for this one himself, but it couldn’t be more perfect for what he needed now.

What he would like that he didn’t have was a pair of binoculars, or a spotting scope. But that would have spoiled the disguise, and besides, he would need to move quickly. It wasn’t sensible to have his arms full of equipment when he would need every muscle fibre, every neuron, attuned to the task at hand. He would strike, and finally feed the insatiable need, the - call it what it was - lust. Terrible appetite. He would strike, and vanish, and never reappear on this street.

How long had it been, since the last one? It had been during the strain just after Sherlock’s pretend death. Dealing with all the details, the inquiries, and, yes, the emotional distress, of his brother’s veritable exile, had driven him to certain - excesses - that he regretted later. Although he had kept tabs on Sherlock as best as anyone could, there was an unavoidably worrying aspect of the entire affair. Mycroft cared deeply for his little brother, appearances aside. And if he chose to take the stress out by.... well, what was the harm, really? 

It had to be quick. The flip side of acting alone was that he had no backup - no getaway driver, in the vulgar vernacular. The next street down would have plenty of cabs. He had timed this impeccably; there was no room for doubt.

Mycroft took one more glance out the window, inhaled sharply, picked up his satchel, and strode out into the empty street. He made his movements as inconspicuous as a man crossing an empty street could be. A nondescript tweedy suit, the lumpen bag, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses transformed him into an owlish midtown psychiatrist, or perhaps a retired professor of development economics, one who had picked up the faintest limp during his time in the field. Thunder rolled, not too distantly, lending an appropriate sense of tension to the proceedings. His little brother would have enjoyed that touch. They both did enjoy a certain flair for the dramatic. If Mycroft had examined his motives a little more closely, he might have acknowledged that Sherlock was the single person on Earth he was most keen to hide this morning from.

He opened the door to the sound of delicately chiming bells. Finally. Finally.  
“One Black Forest cake,” he said to the man behind the counter, “and one cherry cheesecake. Keep the change,” and he pushed a fifty-pound note over the counter. “Quickly, please,” he added.  
“Late for the birthday party, eh?” The man moved gratifyingly fast, tying off the cotton twine and handing over the counter two heavy boxes whose weight alone made Mycroft’s mouth begin to water.  
“Something like that,” he said, smiling. “Good morning.”

As he closed the door behind him the first raindrops began to fall, big fat drops spattering loudly on the pavement. Mycroft pulled out his umbrella and snapped it aloft. He walked away down the street at a smooth pace, neither too fast nor too slow. If you had seen him then, a middle-aged man in a brown suit, cradling a worn satchel close to his side, you might have gathered that it held something precious to him from the way his arm curved around it and how he held the umbrella to shelter it from even a single drop of rain. Or you might not have thought anything about it at all.


End file.
